


If Bitter is Sweet Then He's Just What I Need

by iristigerlily



Category: The Teahouse
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iristigerlily/pseuds/iristigerlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Linneus wonders if he and Xanthe were destined to sleep with everyone but each other for the rest of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Bitter is Sweet Then He's Just What I Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcouldmakealife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/gifts).



Sometimes, Linneus wonders if he and Xanthe were destined to fuck everyone but each other for the rest of their lives.

Of course, part of that is his job, and as much as he entertains the idea of Xanthe finally discovering feelings for Linneus deep down in his heart, the fair-skinned boy knows better than that. He’s an object. A commodity.

—

The realisation comes long before Xanthe’s blunt statement that Linneus was indeed his personal whore.

It’s not long after Xanthe’s father dies, leaving everything to his son. Brothels are not legal, but Xanthe seems to think laws such as those affect other people and so Linneus’ job description has changed from serving customers to serving clients.

Xanthe opens his door.

“It’s time. Come on.”

Linneus isn’t sure if going first is a kindness or a curse. He’d talked to Axis before and the other man had only shoved his foot at Linneus’ face (or, more accurately, his chest — as much as Axis liked to boast otherwise, he wasn’t that flexible) and bragged about the number of brands he had and how they didn’t hurt that much, so why didn’t he just stop being a big baby already and get it over with?

With a heavy swallow, he pushes back his chair and follows Xanthe down to the old kitchens. There’s a stout man standing over the furnace, thick gloves and leather apron donned. He looked disinterestedly at Linneus.

“Lie down,” comes Xanthe’s voice soft and assuring.

So, Linneus, shaking, lies on the bench where he used to prepare his master’s meals and takes a neckerchief, bites down on it hard.

There’s searing pain, tears springing to his eyes before he can stop them, searching for Xanthe’s face as the brand raises in a welt on his foot. His expression is blank, but Linneus is used to reading him.

The iron hisses as it’s dropped into water.

As the tears spill from his eyes, he swallows a whimper.

Xanthe carries him back to his rooms, Linneus’ fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his master’s neck.

“Your hair needs a cut,” he starts, leaving the question hang, unanswered.

Xanthe doesn’t reply.

He drops Linneus onto his bed and pulls a lotion out of his jacket pocket.

“Use this once the swelling goes down. I’ll have the new girl, Claret, bring you some food later.”

Linneus watches his back as he leaves.

—

He is always professional. That is something Linneus prides himself on. He’s always been demure and achingly polite when presented to his clients and had stood dutifully in line at the house-wide lineups when Liard wasn’t calling.

Now, he finds himself flirting with prospective clients; something he never did — or never had to do — before. Some part of him knows he does it just does it to make Xanthe jealous, another knows he won’t notice anyway, but most of him doesn’t give a damn.

—

There’s only one day that Xanthe doesn’t come into his workplace. Claret is a-flutter with excitement.

“Oh, can you imagine, Linneus!” she sighs romantically, “she’ll be dressed all in white, and Atros will be as handsome as ever… Do you think he’ll take her on a honeymoon?”

Linneus smiles when he needs to, nods at the appropriate moments, but he’s not paying attention.

Soon enough, Liard appears, asking for Linneus, as usual.

Linneus shoves him onto the bed and leaves red marks across his chest with his teeth and nails. The young lord, surprisingly, likes it.

For once, Linneus doesn’t care what Liard likes.

He is tired of pining over Xanthe. Of waiting for him like the virgin princesses in the stories he was read as a child. Waiting and wishing and hoping _so damn much_.

He holds his client down, fucking him with an fierceness and an almost-savagery uncharacteristic of his usual timid and shy facade. He bites and claws, growling with anger that Liard mistakes as lust, giving everything he gets. It’s not long before Linneus is the one pinned to the bed, angry red marks surfacing where Liard holds him; his wrists, his hips, his neck.

He needs it. He needs someone else to take control of him today, otherwise he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He almost likes it.

He can almost see her, resplendent in white, the bells of the church behind them. He wonders if Xanthe will smile for his guests.

He doubts it.

—

The day after his nuptials, Xanthe returns to work, as though nothing was different. 

Nothing is. He wears no band to prove his marital status and Linneus supposes that is Xanthe, pure and simple; a married man running a brothel is a paradox, so Xanthe does away with any signs that he was attached.

He never sees her. The one that holds Xanthe’s hand, although not his heart. Linneus isn’t naive enough to believe he holds that privilege, but he knows Xanthe well enough to understand the man cares little for his wife.

He often wonders what she is like. If she somehow feels the same way Linneus does, waiting every day for the dark-haired man to give a sign of affection, for one glance of love, for a word of encouragement or tenderness. To even notice.

He doesn’t even know her name.

—

Every night, he makes tea before he retires to bed, as he has every night since Xanthe introduced him to the drink. Usually, he drinks with Claret while Axis has a one-sided argument with Mercutio and Lilith is nowhere to be seen.

Tonight, he’s alone.

He looks up as the door creaks open, expecting Claret’s sing-song voice and pleasant smile.

Xanthe steps in instead.

Keeping his expression neutral, Linneus turns back to his drink and drops the sugar in.

As he reaches to take the milk jug, his fingers brush against Xanthe’s.

Both pause, and then Xanthe’s hand moves along Linneus’ slender fingers, caressing his knuckles.

Linneus can hear his heart in his ears, feel it in his throat.

Some part of him hates the way he accepts Xanthe’s caresses and touches. As though they are his right.

Linneus supposes that they are. Xanthe owns him, in more ways than one.

Xanthe steps in closer, his breath ghosting along Linneus’ ear. A hand trails to the small of his back.

But he can’t help but feel, as he curls back into Xanthe’s touch to the small of his back, the twist of guilt and shame in his gut eat away at him. Because he knows he is better than that. He’s like a poor man begging for scraps, taking what he can get. But Xanthe teases and every time, he can’t help but give in, because he knows that it might the the last time, that Xanthe might tire of him, or suddenly feel morally obligated to his wife, or…

Or he might open his eyes and see what has been before him for so long.

Suddenly, Xanthe’s gone. Linneus looks around to see him at the door. There’s a heavy look in his eyes, dark with desire. As he steps over the threshold, Linneus knows it’s an invitation.

He’s alone again in the kitchen, his tea going cold.

He leaves it behind and returns to his own room, locking the door behind him. 

It’s not to keep anyone out, but to ensure he doesn’t leave.

—

Liard appreciates it when Linneus makes an effort in his appearance, so he wears an excessive amount of jewellery when the young lord pays him a visit. 

It was like a ritual, beforehand. Bathing in scented oils, scrubbing every inch — _every_ inch — of his body clean before adorning himself with gold and gems. Some of them were from the Atros household, others gifts from Liard. The lord spared no expense on his favourite whore.

The bruises he accumulates during his sessions with Liard don’t bother him. It is much better to have something to show for your pain, he supposes, and they hurt less than the pain Xanthe seems to cause him every other day.

Of course, the bruises continue, and it was far easier to bury the hurt than it was to hide the marks.

So when Xanthe assaults and bars Liard for causing them, it’s hard for Linneus not to feel the bitter irony.

—

It’s autumn and there’s a chill as the doors open as clients come and go, which is fairly often these days. Linneus is almost constantly requested and Xanthe has his work cut out for him, fielding clients left and right, which means Linneus hasn’t seen him all day.

The servants go through their daily routines of closing up shop, and Linneus stands on the stairway, watching as his final client leaves, giving a demure smile and a wave when he pauses at the door.

His expression falls as he hears the door click, the gusts of wind outside silenced.

He waits a moment, the sudden silence of the Teahouse washing over him.

Then, there’s the _clik clack_ of familiar, expensive shoes on the tiles.

Xanthe walks to the door, hand in his pocket, fumbling for something. He looks up, sees Linneus and he stops, removing his hand from his pocket.

There’s a stalemate for a moment. Neither moving, or saying anything, just breath held in the silence.

Linneus has no idea what Xanthe is thinking at the moment, for all he feels he knows the man. He’s always been able to read him, yet Xanthe can close himself off so completely, Linneus sees nothing but shuttered eyes these days.

But they’re both tired. Xanthe looks worn, and Linneus is sick of thinking too hard. He walks towards his master, stopping at the door.

“Happy birthday, Xanthe,” he murmurs, bumping his fingers against the larger hand. 

The expression that crosses the other man’s face is equal parts surprised and pleased. Xanthe laces their fingers together, a rare smile breaking across his lips.

“Thank you,” he says tenderly, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He lingers for a moment, two, before he pushes the door and steps into the swirling evening breeze.

He knows it’s a holding pattern, but he feels as though, somehow, walls are breaking down.

He shuts the door, a soft smile playing on his lips.


End file.
